Dial-Up Assassin
by The Itchy Bird
Summary: Modern AU. "Homestead Communications", Achilles Davenport's telecommunications company, is being threteaned by Abstergo Industries' plot of capital conquest, but his new apprentice, Ratonhnak:ton/Connor Kenway, presents the idea of "Dial-Up Assassin", an emergency hotline that lets the Assassins help the population. Can they keep the Creed and company alive against the Templars?
1. Prologue

**Name of fanfic:**Dial-Up Assassin

**Summary: **Modern AU. Achilles Davenport is the tired owner of emergency telecommunications company "Homestead Connections", which may be closed down by Abstergo Industries' capital conquests, and is close to selling it when his new apprentice, Connor Kenway, suggests they revive it with its own alter ego. "Dail-Up Assassin" was soon borne from the ashes as Connor and the reviving Brotherhood helps to slowly bring back the company plus taking calls from people in need of help using his recruits, later to be more deeply invovled with fighting any form of tyranny within the bounderies of New England. But soon Abstergo Industries find out about it and the Templars will do their best to take down "Dial-Up Assassin". Can they keep the company alive while battling this super giant?

**Theme:** Office comedy, Drama, Action-Adventure, Family/Friendship, Educational (?), Crossover (both the games, novels, and comic series of the fandom) and just plain humor.

First person narration. Mostly Connor Kenway's POV (Point of view), but it may change as the story goes.

**Warning:** Rated M for weird parodies, discussion of politics, cursing of sorts, violence and gore, racial slurs, implied shipping, occasional innuendos, writing errors and slight OOC-ness .

Enjoy! :V

* * *

**_Main building, Abstergo Industries, New York_**

**_December 31, 2013_**

It is 11:50 P.M. on a Tuesday night. The well-lit, air-conditioned room is prestine, sleek color combinations of black, white and grey on the construction and the somewhat futuristic-styled interior designing. And yet on the box glass table infront of me, a _smack_ of irony greets the onlooker. A ceramic china set is laid out, along with tea bags, cream and sugar cubes. Such an elaborate and traditional set for a room so unorthodox and simplified.

Though I probably shouldn't be talking about the interior while I'm _shackled_ to this chair.

Fifteen minutes ago, I regained consciousness only to find that I was strapped onto a bilky, metal chair by the wrists and ankles. I relunctantly gave up prying my wrists and ankles from the contraption after five minutes, the proof of struggle visible on my newly acquired bruises. The next few minutes then I spent surveying the room, trying to come up with an escape plan or waiting for the right moment to move. Dammit, it's already aggrivating as is that an Assassin of my level is currently being bounded on only a chair, but the fact that my captor is sitting right across the table from me, crossed-legged and sipping Earl Grey-or some other tea variant-from such a dainty cup and saucer, isn't far from disturbing.

Graying hair slicked back, a periwinkle shirt and black tie ensemble, black pants and designer's leather shoes. The Englishman took his time sipping that black-colored drink, the steam more visible due the AC cooling the room. After one last sip, he gracefully lowers the cup and saucer onto the table, pinky finger supporting the the side of the saucer.

"Ahhh...a cup of jasmine is all that's needed for this situation." Haytham remarked before looking at me critically. Or, I thought it was directly at me. Straining his brows, he commented, "Oh. Didn't you like your tea, old boy?"

Grudgingly, my eyes shift down. A similar cup and drink was offered to me earlier despite (or because) I was restrained. Was he expecting me to bow down and drink it like a dog, or was he being a tease, knowing I had no freedom to take the cup myself? Not that I would enjoy taking any drink he offers. "I'm more of a Nescafe person..." I curtly answer back like I had just wrinkled my nose at the smell of the jasmine.

The man, supposedly my father, just shakes his head. "Tsk. American-branded coffee drinks. You truly have no taste, Connor." he remarks as he takes the tea away from me like I had just wasted the opportunity of a lifetime. But it does seem that way. It's not everyday that one can have tea and converse with the head of a secretly criminal organization. Moreso because of my job. "My tastes for caffeine beverages are obviously not important at the moment, though." my answer as snippy as I rolled my eyes, not that he could see that through my hood.

No, my tastes does not matter. Unless it was my blade tasting his flesh and blood. But I didn't have my blade or any of my usual weapons. The Templars had taken them while I was knocked out and hid them somwhere.

"So you are aware of your current situation. Right, then." Arranging the set onto a tray, he taps a button on the table and a compartment opens. He places the set there and the lid slides back, the table clear now. His gaze back to me, he continued, "You're here because we want to negotiate with you. You and your...company." The man said the last word with poison. "We only wish to benefit both ours and hope to bring better service to your clients. Clients that you have been...rather generous with."

I snort. _Negotiation. Benefits. Generosity._ He and this blasted industry of theirs want us dead and our facilities burned to the ground. Without us, they can continue with their dictatious and inhumane plots for conquest. But we won't let that happen.

Not when our lines are always ringing.

Perhaps I should go back to the beginning of all this...

* * *

**Author's note: **Hello, everyone! Itchy here with my very first Assassin's Creed fanfic! I don't do much of these, but I really wanted to try some again so this'll be up in time for 2014. :D

This AU is actually inspired by many AUs I've found on Tumblr, and the term "Connorline" (Yes, I know it's a pairing name, but I randomly got the idea that it sounded like some hotline involving the characters from AC 3 and then this fic came into mind. OTL) It started as for fun, but then I reaaaaaaaally got wrapped into the idea.

Now, it has been a LONG time since I've written fanfiction (and very crappy ones at that...), but now that I've had a few muses on hwo to write fanfiction, I've finally mustered up the courage to start typing it into a file and submit. And...the upcoming chapter 1 took 2-5 days to write. Seriously. Respect to all you writers out there, fanfic or official stories! *thumbs up of admiration*

Okay, now that the formalities are done, back to the fanfiction. So, yeah. it's a modern alternative universe fanfiction, starring most of the characers from Assassin's Creed III and a few others from the other games, comic series, and novels. A few OCs included, too.

And yes. Haytham Kenway is the current head of Abstergo Industries and Grandmaster of the Templars. (How many of you saw this before clicking the story, hmm?) But he's actually not directly in charge of Abstergo. I've decided that I'll make a puppet CEO for the story later. not sure if it should be someone from the gameplay or an original character.

Aaaaaaaaaand I suck at titles. REALLY suck at them. OTL

Also, I hope everyone will have a good one this 2014! Don't forget to review and tell em what your thoughts are on this preview!

Updates are within a week more or less, so keep alert! :D

_~Itchy_


	2. Chapter 1: Uncanny Meeting

**Name of fanfic:**Dial-Up Assassin

**Summary: **Modern AU. Achilles Davenport is the tired owner of emergency telecommunications company "Homestead Connections", which may be closed down by Abstergo Industries' capital conquests, and is close to selling it when his new apprentice, Connor Kenway, suggests they revive it with its own alter ego. "Dail-Up Assassin" was soon borne from the ashes as Connor and the reviving Brotherhood helps to slowly bring back the company plus taking calls from people in need of help using his recruits, later to be more deeply invovled with fighting any form of tyranny within the bounderies of New England. But soon Abstergo Industries find out about it and the Templars will do their best to take down "Dial-Up Assassin". Can they keep the company alive while battling this super giant?

**Theme:** Office comedy, Drama, Action-Adventure, Family/Friendship, Educational (?), Crossover (both the games, novels, and comic series of the fandom) and just plain humor.

First person narration. Mostly Connor Kenway's POV (Point of view), but it may change as the story goes.

**Warning:** Rated M for weird parodies, discussion of politics, cursing of sorts, violence and gore, racial slurs, implied shipping, occasional innuendos, writing errors and slight OOC-ness .

Enjoy! :V

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

_**Attucks National University, Boston, Massachusettes **_

_**March, 2008**_

5: 48 P.M. The noise outside our dorm had been on-going since the break of dawn and hadn't stopped much at dusk. But that wasn't the only reason why I decided to poke my head out of our 3rd-floor window. From the roudyness of the spring break (and I still question why they chose to stay at the university and _not_ at some Florida beach), some decided to launch wet tee shirts at the dorms at the exact moment when I had decided to start my thesis. Just as I had opened the window, another shirt zoomed passed inches from my face and onto floor. Staring at the wet item with irritation, I looked back outside and saw two frat boys bursting out laughter while holding the bazooka suspected they used to launch the wet garment.

"Hey, hey, hey! Look who just came out to smell the flowers?", one of the boys cackled out. I think he was part of the baseball team. I think from my Calculus class. It didn't matter, though. "Yo, Mohawk boy! Why not get out of your tent and have a little fun during the spring break?"

Lawrence, I think his name was that. Oh, how fun he poked at me using that nickname. Well, it was better than "bush nigger" or "Indian bro" or whatever nickname people came up with these days. And traditional Mohawk homes are longhouses, not tents. Rolling my eyes, I went and picked up the wet shirt before going back to lean on the window.

"My apologies, but I have _actual work_ to do. Here,", I nonchanlantly threw the shirt back and it landed on the sidewalk near them with a soft splat. I continued, "I wish you many merriments on your bazooka mission. Just leave my window alone!" And with that, I backed away and raised a hand to close my window. But not without hearing the other boy yell out, "You're no fun, man! It's spring break, for fuck's sake!"

I grunted before closing the window and going back to my still-opened laptop. Here I was, planning to use whatever free time spring break offered to finish my work early so I wouldn't have to go into a procrastination fit at the end of the semester. And they were inviting me to launch moisted garments at random windows. How tempting.

A shifting sound from the bunker bed meant my roommate had just woken up, though it was a mystery as to how he could take a long nap, undisturbed by the party music and chattery just outside our dorm. Stephane, scratching at his crop-cut auburn hair, slowly sat up with a groan.

Rubbing tenatiously at his eyes, he blinked at few times and turned to me. "Ummf...Cher seigneur*, Radun... What time is it?", he mumbled sleepily. My culinary-majoring friend attempted to put on his shirt but couldn't roam his hand to it, even though it was just at his side.

I paused first at the nickname. Like most people, he still couldn't pronounce my full name and settled with an abbreviation of it, though it completely lacked meaning.

"It's almost sunset." I snorted at him as I turned my chair to face him. "Those after parties aren't as good as they sound now, do they?"

As if what I said had triggered his memories of last night's shindigs, he started mumbling random French and held his head in his free hand. Stephane Chapheau, my rather senior roommate, went to join the other party-goers to celebrate Spring Break, only to come home hours after 5 A.M. with a hangover the size of Massachussetts and slept the entire day. As he tried futally to get new clothes to wear, my French companion stood up from his bottom bunker, the mattress creeking from the absence of weight, and made his way to the bathroom.

"Right, right... I'm just gonna freshen up for...um.." he didn't even bother to finish his statement as he slammed the bathroom door behind him.

I chuckled smugly. What college parties had taught me was that hangovers were a miserable after-effect. One I would seldom want while I was here. Before returning back to my tast, I opened a drawer and took out a scrunchy (Is that what girls called it?) and proceeded to tie my sholder-lengthed hair into a half-ponytail. Spinning my chair again to my laptop, I idly began where I had last finished in my thesis, my fingers occasionally twirling around my single beaded braid absentmindedly. The clock at the end of the taskbar marked the time and I made a quick note to stop and save my work an hour later before going to my internship job. Turning my head at the bathroom door, I loudly stated, "Oh, Stephane! Almost forgot: Wait up for me later while I'm on my shift, alright?"

Some disfigured "oui"s from the other side meant that he somewhat understood.

* * *

_**Financial District, Boston**_

_**Later That Night **_

9: 15 P.M. It was already tiring enough to work until this late at night, but I wasn't getting paid yet. Not now, anyway. The insurance company I took up for my internship was, to say the least, demanding. Four hours of work on odd days, from seven thirty to ten or eleven at night, with about very little time for a decent coffee break and being asked to fax, repair, and deliever assortments of items from one department to another, even though I was only working for one specific area.

But all the stress just made me more at eased afterwards. I would go to the men's room, change from my office wear into more casual dray-and-blue hoodie garb before logging off from the clerk's desk and would exit the office building, the not-too-warm night air whisking against my skin. And greeted by the still-bustling urban sight of the district.

Compared to the clean but bland offices I go to work at, the bright, shiny buildings where a wondrous sight in the nighttime cityscape as I walked along the pavement. And although used to this route by now, I always felt like I wanted to enter those buildings, just to see what goes on in them. Though from my experience as a network intern, they might have similar things going on inside, whether the interior was similarly done by some posh millionare contractor. But they were a relief compared to the repetiive work I had to go through. Doing similarly purposed assignments for my manager and the delegates in the office. Hopefully, by the time I complete my internship, I could actually have a normal paycheck from the company. Maybe get a job at Intel or some telecommunications company.

But the busy pedestrian lanes were repplaced by small restaurants and convenient stores later on. The downtown area was right near Chinatown and the buildings around grew smaller and less grand with every step I took. And further on, people became more conspicious and shady-looking...and less.

Since my dorm was just one drive away from the district, I've decided to only walk halfway until the nearest bus station. And as usual, toughening up my awareness, I stopped gazing up and became potent in keeping my guard, my right hand gingerly clutching the pepper spray I had borrowed from Stephane in my hood. It's been the same since I started my internship, but I always felt like there were awlays eyes pinned to the alley walls, waiting to spot their next victim. And I intended to not be that. I just needed to get to the bus station...

"Pardon me!", a scruffed voice yelled at me before the figure zoomed passed me. A flurry of white and blue came before the image of a hood and trench coat ensemble came to view. But before I could react, though, another person bumped into me, wearing some kind of security uniform, and I nearly lost my balance before leaning on the nearby wall for support. It took me a few seconds to register what had just happened before another figure passed by and stepped his foot on mine. "Aaargh!" A quick hand grabbed my foot to try and massage the pain away, even though my shoes coveredmy toes.

Trying to ignore the numbing pain, I looked up to glare at them, but found that they had curved into an alleyway. "What the hell..."

By the time my foot had stopped throbbing, they had most likely gone far into the night. I grunted before straightened myself out, trying to get over what had just occured. Finally resetting my hood, I continued on for my bus station quest.

* * *

I could just about see the lighted windows of the station, a line of buses parked or already moving right besides the one-floored structure. There was a small amount of nighttime passangers waiting to buy their tickets or board their ride if they already have them. There was even a line of passangers who had to exit the bus because of a maintenance problem.

Sighing, finally making it to my destination, I continued on. Maybe Stephane _was_ actually waiting up on me. Making sure that no one around looked like they were going to mug me, I quickly took out my cellphone, unlocked it and speed-dialed his number. Stopping to lean on a nearby post with the speaker placed at my ear, I waited for the ringing to click and be replaced by Stephane's French lisp.

"H'allo? Radun?"

"Stephane. I'm about to get a ticket for the bus. How're things at the moment there?"

"Uneventful. Well, except that the frat boys are throwing things aside from wet shirts at our windows now. No sooner did they launch that sub sandwich-"

"A sandwich?" I couldn't even count the questions that had formed in my head after hearing that.

"Oui, a sandwhich. Well, no sooner did they launch it that Monsieur Taggert went out and tried to deal with the boys."

"And did he succeed?" I asked concerningly. I had hope the fraternity didn't go as far as having the security at the dorms notice them. Suddenly, I didn't realized that I had started walking again until seeing that I was already on the station's pavement. Going over to push open the glass door, I entered and made my way to one of the chairs in the waiting area and sat down on the curved plastic.

"Non.*" The exasperation of his voice was rather clear form the phone. "He was only trying to ward them off, but one of the frat boys tried to aim the bazooka at him and he had to duck behind a trashbin to dodge it. Poor man tried to appprehend the boy, but the others rounded up around him and they were throwing him around like a ragdoll. Forced me and some good folk from the dorms to come down and get him out of that mess."

A snort came out and then a hiss at the speaker. "Ended up with everyone trying to get onto the other and the results were many bruises and a few cops showing up to get the order back. The frats, a few of the live-ins and the guard had to go to the police station to explain the whole endavour, but luckily, we were sent home first. I'm currently dabbing the betadine on my shoulder from that experience. Sorry."

My fingers immediately went up to squeeze the bridge of my nose. Most likely a fight was the result of such confrantation no matter how diplomatic the dorm patrons tried to talk it out. Like every spring break since we moved there. "You know, you could've just stayed inside and not get into that ordeal."

"Hoho! Far from that." I heard him say proudy. "I was the leader of that little stand-off. Better we did something to defend ourselves and leave them a reason to not come back, I say."

Sighing, I checked the phone's clock. Around eleven fifteen and the chaos still hadn't ceased by then. I put the phone back to my face and spoke tiredly, "At this rate, I'm going to have to move to a new dorm, with or without you."

The chuckle from the other line meant he knew I was just exaggerating. Mostly. "Alright, alright. Do you want anything from the nearby store while I'm here?"

He was taking his time considering my offer as the line hasn't had much sound except for his humming. I took this time to go over the counter to ask for my ticket. After stating my destination, the ticket lady boredly gave me my ticket and shoved my money into a cash box, not even bothering to count it. Then I made my way to the exit just as Stephane finally made a choice. "Oh. Could you get some of those beef jerky packs the Americans enjoy alot?"

"That's it? Just jerky?" I wasn't sure if the store next door even HAD jerky. "Well, I'm not sure I can get that, but I'll go check at the store if they-"

The words stopped mid-sentence as my eyes fell to one of the alleys, at a far end ot the intersection. It was still too dark to see it, but the white figure from earlier was being forcedlly pulled into the curb, his feet trying to wretch his body free by thrashing around before those too were pulled away from my line of vision. It was at one of the more secluded parts of the block, with practically no person hanging around at thsi time. A feeling in my gut told me that it was trouble, but...

"H'allo? Radun, are you still there?" Stephane's voice pulled me out of my thinking.

Pursing my lips and curving my brows, I flatly answered, "I'll call you later." before putting the phone on standby, pocketing it and silently making my way to the curb. My inner thoughts were always ignored by my insticts to go and check out the happenings, no matter how often I tried to convince myself otherwise. Like whenever I see trouble, I only accept the challenge when it's completely inconvenient for me... Not like someone was actually challenging me at the moment, though.

Which is why I was currently leaning against the wall adjacent to the alleyway I saw the figure get pulled into, near a dumpster and a few trash cans.

"LET GO OF ME!" I think that was the man in the white hood. He sounded rather aged and raspy.

"Not until you tell us why you were scampering around the building, old man!" Another voice threatened, probably one of the security guys I saw earlier as well.

"Like I would tell you scumbags what business I had there-" He was cut off, the gasp and cough he emitted probably meant one of them was beating him up. I cringed abit at the thought.

"You ain't in damn puhzishin' to be back-sassin' at us, so just fess up and we'll take you into custody instead of splitting yo' neck open." The second guy stated with a Boston accent.

I think I heard the old man spit at one of them. The angry sound must have meant it hit target. Ignoring their conversation for awhile, l looked down at one of the trash cans. I kneeled down, turned one of them over and kicked-rolled it across the alley opening. Then I took out the pepper spray and readied it in one hand and the can lid in the other while my back was flat against the wall.

I swallowed hard, getting tensed. _This had better work._

"What was that?" The first thug asked alertedly.

A weird click was heard before the other replied, "I dunno. Wait right here and keep an eye on him, will ya?" The soft-but-getting-louder sound of rubber boots padding on the concrete meant he was coming closer. As he came closer, I was desparately trying to pushed away any disrupting thought away and focused hard on what I needed to do.

Just as the uniformed man came into view-my heart jumped up my throat when I saw the handgun-, something started shaking inside the turned-over can. It immediately got the attention of the man. He tensed up and aimed the gun at it, ready to pull the trigger when a _meow_ from the rubble. Soon, a dirty cat came out, shaking off the litter and hissing menacingly at the man, the fur on its back rising up before scurrying away from the scene.

The man let out a sigh and chuckled. "Hey, Jeff! You're not gonna believe this." It's a puss!" He said as he eased his grip on the gun and I saw my opportunity.

"Well, hurry back here, damn you! Who knows what our _friend_ here-" mostly likely describing the hooded man. "-will try at us with."

"Yeah, Yeah, I gotcha. Nothin' here but some-" I didn't give him time to finish as I pressed and sprayed at his eyes. He screamed in agony, dropping his gun and swaying abit, relapsing on the pain as the pepper melted into his pupils. As he thrashed some more, I pocketed the spray, quickly moved forward and kicked his gun to the other side of the street.

"Hey!" The other man yelled, facing my direction. "Stop right there, punk!" I had just raised the lid when the shot was fired and it hit the metal with a loud clank. Keeping it infront of me, I darted at the man in a zigzag movement to avoid the continuous shots he fired, some missing me by a few inches. The noisey bang was muffled by a silencer attatched, but I still knew how to dodged them. The closer I got, the more I expected his aim to improve, but when I finally came to a halt, I saw that the hooded figure had gotten up somehow and gripped the thug from behind. With one quick movement, he moved his left arm over the man's neck and it started spilling out blood, his limbs loosening and dropping the gun he held to the ground, before the hooded man let go and let him fall on the ground, lifeless.

* * *

For a long time, my body froze on the spot. I carelessly dropped the trash can lid and kept my gaze at the dead body. It took me a few seconds-though it felt like forever- to register the thought that came in.

_I had just witness murder._

Though it was in self-defense, the pool of blood forming around the dead man's body wasn't helping my shock. Then it dawned on me that I had _saved _the killer. And it sank in deep into my chest. It was hard, but I tried to look at the hooded man.

His white coat was stained by the blood that had soaked into the fabric. It was visible even in the barely-lit alleyway. His posture, though, bothered me more. My eyes scanned the arm he had used and found somewhere gauntlet, bloodied and...it lookd like a blade was attached to it.

Then I scanned him entirely. He looked very much in pain, heaving air in and out while one black-gloved hand was holding onto his right leg. Assuming that his leg was injured, it was most likely while he was thrashing against his captors. Then, mustering up whatever courage was left, I raised my eyes to his face.

He _was_ old. Most likely in his 60s. And of African-American stock, the white facial hair standing out from his dark skin. His expression was still pained, but he looked at me with a dose of hostility. But he then bent over picked up the discarded gun. And raised it.

Right. To. My. Face.

Panic started shooting at every bit of my body And I finally began to move and backed away quickly, hands raised in defense. "W-w-wait! Didn't I just save you-"

"Get down." His voiced commanded harshly.

My eyed narrowed at him, confused, but still alert. "Why are you-"

_Bang!_

The shot was fired too quickly. My eyes were shut tight, thinking this was the end for me. And i waited for my body to drop in pain and for death to take me.

But I didn't feel the impact.

It flew past me, even. I had just realized it, then slowly opening one eye, saw that the man had shifted his aim to my right before dropping his arm and letting go of the gun, the firearm dropping metalically on the ground.

I turned around to the direction of his shot and was greeted with the sight of the other uniformed thug, lying on his back and the limbs twitching before they stopped moving. His head was... I had to resist vomitting. It was split open from the cranium by the gunshot and was bleeding tremendously. Before I could get over the grotesque display though, I was grabbed by the arms and the weight tugged at me. I turned my head to the old man, who was clinging onto me for dear life. He was trying to mumble something. I leaned in closer to get a clearer reception.

"Ca...Ca...Can you drive..a..a bike?"

I raised a brow, then it hit me. He was asking me if I could drive a motorcycle. I nodded frantically, having learned by doing restaurant deliveries during high school. I was still confused until he took something out of his inner-coat pockets. Shakily, he raised his hand and, holding it from the chain, tried to hand me a key. Hesitatedly taking it, I ran my thumb on the small item. Then, with me holding him up wihtout thinking, he got up, still clinging onto my shoulder.

"There's...there's a bike.." he started, still breathing hard from the pain in his leg. "..A few blocks away...head to the next street...at the right..."

"Wait! Your leg!" I snapped cautiously. "We need to get you to a hospital-"

"No time!" The man cringed while urging me to go. "Not the hospital.. They'll find..they'll find me there...We have to...go. NOW." The last word was said with such urgency and, if I heard it right, plea.

The sound at the back of my throat only heightened my displeasure of the whole situation. I was in an alleyway, two dead guys are on the ground, the murderer, who I had _just_ rescued, was asking me to avoid _any_ kind of public help or authority. And I had unwittingly become an accesory and witness to his supposed crime. All before midnight.

Taking a deep and long breath, I adjusted myself and the man and began trudging towards the other street. Not too fast as to strain further his leg, but still hurriedly making our way. And indeed, there was motorcycle parked behind a telelphone booth, the helmet strapped around one of the mirrors. We continued on until I had the old man hold onto the booth while I maneuvered the bike near him and onto the road, putting up its side stand. Then, gingerly, I helped him up the seat, careful not to further increase his dicomfort. I came on the front end of the seat afterwards. He then grabbed my left shoulder with one hand and craddled his leg with the other.

After grabbing the helmet and strapping it only my head, I took out the key and slipped in into the ignition slot, then kicked the peddle and twisted the handgrip repeatedly until the engine roared into life. Then, kicking off the sidestand, I glanced back at the old man.

"By the way, I'm Radun! You have a name or should I just call you 'geezer'?", I shouted at him amidst the loud engine. Usually respecting and modest around old folk, the situation took both qualities from me and I couldn't help slur abit.

A loud 'Hmph!' came from him before shouting back. "Achilles Davenport! Now head northwest from here!" he pointed up the more rural neighborhoods.

I hesitated, trying to recall just why on Earth had made me agree to escort this man away from the crime scene, then remembered I had a hand in it as well. Nodding that I udnerstood, I faced the road again, but not before spotting a weird symbol on the gas tank. it looked like an "A", only it didn't have a line in the middle and was more like a staple remover.

As if seeing my gazing at the symbol, Achilles nudged at me. "Nevermind that! I'll explain everything later. Now, drive!"

I complied. Pushing the bike forward with my feet, I prolonged on the handgrip and we were off. And as the wind smacked at my face at sixty-two miles an hour, I was in for a _long _night_._

**END OF CHAPTER 1**

* * *

_**Author's note:**__ Some notes:_

_Cher seigur means "Dear Lord" in French...I think. And Non means "No"...not like that needed a translation._

_And it's done! First real chapter, with 4000+ wods, too. O_O_

_So, at the real beginning of the story, Connor is (for the meantime) a IT college student (Btw, not an actual university. It's named after a victim/fighter from the Bostom Massacre. Look him up. ;P) who currently lives in Boston, Massachusetts (I've spelled this wrong WAY too often OTL) with roomie Stephane Chapheau, who is actually the first of the Recruits in the actual game. And instead of going to Achilles purposedly, they end up meeting by the strangest of circumstance. More into that later._

_Oh, and Connor currently has an intership at (insert random insurance company's name), and, based off movies, friends at college who had internships, and articles concerning the topic, I guess I made his internship in the story kind of sucky, especially with his heritage. Oh well._

_Oh, the setting. yes, I had to research abit on Boston, history and modern day, to give this abit more details. As for the time setting, I decided to give it at least 5 years story-wise._

_Next chapter may or may not be submitted next week, or the week after that...January 15 tops!_

And do leave out your review here. Suggestions and criticism are welcome! :D


	3. Chapter 2: What's In A Name

**Name of fanfic:**Dial-Up Assassin

**Summary:**Modern AU. Achilles Davenport is the tired owner of emergency telecommunications company "Homestead Connections", which may be closed down by Abstergo Industries' capital conquests, and is close to selling it when his new apprentice, Connor Kenway, suggests they revive it with its own alter ego. "Dail-Up Assassin" was soon borne from the ashes as Connor and the reviving Brotherhood helps to slowly bring back the company plus taking calls from people in need of help using his recruits, later to be more deeply invovled with fighting any form of tyranny within the bounderies of New England. But soon Abstergo Industries find out about it and the Templars will do their best to take down "Dial-Up Assassin". Can they keep the company alive while battling this super giant?

**Theme:** Office comedy, Drama, Action-Adventure, Family/Friendship, Educational (?), Crossover (both the games, novels, and comic series of the fandom) and just plain humor.

First person narration. Mostly Connor Kenway's POV (Point of view), but it may change as the story goes.

**Warning:** Rated M for weird parodies, discussion of politics, cursing of sorts, violence and gore, racial slurs, implied shipping, occasional innuendos, writing errors and slight OOC-ness .

**Disclaimer:** Most of the characters are canon and belong to Ubisoft. I own only the story and certain OCs.

_**Notice: **Okay, I apologize for any inaccuracies from the last chapter. Because first off, I've never been to Boston, Massachusetts before, so whatever geographical definition I'm working on here is kind of scrapped or borederline fictional. (Then again, the Homestead wasn't exactly properly marked either. I think it's somewhere between Massachusettes and Maine...or was it New Hampshire...IDK, basing this from the game map of the Homestead. Urk.) but please, if any of you live there or know enough of the city and the outskirts, please. Don't hesitate to tell me and correct it. ; e ;_

_And a BILLION thanks to swegm for editng this one. And I'm glad you enjoyed helping me out, despite my late update. OuO_

_Okay, notice over. Enjoy the read!_

* * *

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Outside Boston City Limit**_  
_**Past Midnight**_

We drove on for more than an hour, passing by suburban neighborhoods as the normal-sized to the more well-sized of homes came into view. Every now and then, the old man-excuse me, Achilles-would direct me to a different road, intersection, or curb. And from the way he suddenly became vigilant in guiding my way around, I believe we were close to whatever destination he wanted us to go to, but the further I drove, the more distant every structure was. Frustrated at not knowing what the situation was in reality, I constantly inquired about it, but the dark-skinned man kept dismissing it, promising to "explain everything when we get there."

Get to where?

It took several more minutes of driving before Achilles started nudging at my shoulder, exclaiming, "Stop! We're here!"

I squeezed at the brakes and curved over near the pavement, balancing the motorcycle before looking at our surroundings. We had stopped at an area full of warehouses, slightly isolated from the other establishments and just barely lit by streetlights. The walls surrounding most of the compound were made of fairly old bricks with a large gate at the entrance. One could somewhat make out a small doorway on the gate. I blinked for a time before feeling the old man do some shuffling.

Turning around, I saw him retrieve a small microphone from inside his coat, clipping it onto his collar and flipping a switch somewhere. He then coughed to clear his throat before speaking to the tiny mic.

"Bloodhound here. I repeat, Bloodhound here. Please answer. Over."

Bloodhound. That was a weird yet appropriate codename... Though the fact that he was using a codename for an unknown purpose struck me as beyond suspicious. He remained quiet for a while, when suddenly an electronic sound started coming out from somewhere in his coat, the person or persons he was speaking to replying back.

"Yes. I've gathered the info and eliminated the target, but I had to split immediately after the area started flooding with guards. And I..." The old man held his injured leg gingerly. "...just barely made it out alive, over."

_You're welcome, Mr. Davenport_, I thought sharply, just barely remembering his full name from when he introduced himself _because I had saved him._

A weird sound from the man snapped me out of my sarcastic thinking before he started talking again. "Oh, you can trust the boy I'm with..."

_With? So the people on the other line could see us?_

"No, I can't go in alone by myself," Achilles continued. "Just open the gates already." Though not loud, the authority in his voice was enough to make me cringe. He even forgot to say "over" afterwards.

Nodding at whoever was replying to, he gave off a tiny smile before saying, "Yes. Thank you. Over and out." With that, he turned off the mic and unclipped it from his collar before putting it back into his coat. Then he raised his head, just noticing my stare before I turned away sheepishly. As I did, however, a slight rumbling came from the gates. Suddenly, it opened by itself, parting in two with an electronic beeping. Slowly, the path became wider until the beeping had stopped, exposing the sand-based expansion of the compound.

I quickly became unsure of whether or not I should even try to enter unfamiliar grounds, but more nudging and a "Go on, boy," from Achilles prompted me to twist the throttle and push forward, driving onto the lot. The compound seemed to be more than... 9,000 square meters, was it?... with about three evenly sized warehouses making up the lot. The whole place was surrounded by the massive wall, with only the front and back gates serving as a means of entrance.

The door of the warehouse farthest from us was open, light emerging from behind the silhouette of what I thought was a man; likely the person he was talking to a while back. He appeared to be waving, which Achilles confirmed by pointing at the man, so I drove toward the warehouse.

My guess was right when I thought there was a man at the door; He was of a similar age to Achilles, but he was Caucasian, and his hair and mustache had completely gone white. Garbed in a trench coat, dark trousers and some leather boots, our new companion quickly strode over to us the minute I pulled over and parked the bike. Taking off the helmet and hanging it on one of the rearview mirrors, I carefully got off the bike to help him lower Achilles from it, but as I was about to draw near, the other man stopped in his tracks and eyed me suspiciously, his stance now defensive of himself and Achilles. I just stood there, feeling my need to be away from here increase.

The hooded Achilles broke our stand-off with his grunts. "Let him help, Robert," he hoarsely insisted as he held onto the bike, waiting for one of us to assist him. The man he called Robert immediately came to his left side to grab hold of him. As I got over the mercifully-ruined mood and went to take Achilles' left arm, the gray-haired man kept giving me looks, then turned to his friend in resignation before we started going into the warehouse.

"What's this kid doing here with you, Achilles?" he started, then looked as though he was considering his words before continuing, "Alright, he escorted you here. But he has no reason to-"

"Stand down, Faulkner. It's because of him that I'm still here talking to you." Through groans and slight heaves of breath, Achilles was able to muster up enough sense to make his rebuke sound smooth and convincing, which might have worked, judging from the uncomfortable sound coming from Faulkner. He backed down, but continued to eye me with disdain.

Again, it was Achilles who broke the silence. "Also, my friend, I believe I owe the boy more than just an explanation." He snorted as we walked about the warehouse, looking for a place to sit him down. I was a little startled by the man suddenly taking sides with me. Faulkner merely sighed and tried not to look at me anymore. Synchronizing our steps, we made our way into the warehouse.

"This 'boy' has a name, you know," I blurted out, unable to help myself, knowing their names whilst they didn't know mine. And I was getting tired of being spoken of as "the boy."

The man gave off a lopsided smile in acknowledgment. "Pray tell. I couldn't remember the one you told me while you put the bike in gear," He said thoughtfully. "Well, introduce yourself, boy- I mean, _sir_." That last bit of sarcasm earned a grunt from me.

I didn't expect to give them my actual name, but my tongue started sliding around the back of my teeth, thinking on how my name sounded in my head. Shaking my head, I merely replied, "Radun."

Seeing as they looked like they were waiting for more, I added, "My full name's nothing either of you could pronounce." With that, I nudged at Faulkner, and, without questioning my reply, he started moving again.

I tried to make sense of the place with the little light the lamps would give off at this hour. The interior was like any warehouse I'd seen during my odd job days; the upper windows were closed, there was a crane attached to the ceiling, boxes piled up at one end, and large-to-small crates at another, all arranged to make it look like a functional maze, with a few doors most likely leading to separate areas within the warehouse. There were some tables and chairs at the farther right, and Robert led us there, making turn after turn around the supplies. Achilles, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, was fighting back the urge to cry out from his injury as we carried him.

I gulped, thinking whether or not this was the best time to ask questions, but I figured they'd just answer me with questions of their own. And yet, that symbol on the bike earlier... It seemed familiar... I couldn't get it out of my head, and it kept tugging at me for answers as more questions started bombarding my thinking.

Where had I seen it before? How did I end up in this mess? And why had I agreed to help this wounded stranger?

Finally we reached the area where the chairs where at. Robert then looked at me seriously before saying, "Keep him steady. I'll go get some medical supplies." It was a command, not a request. I nodded, taking hold of Achilles' left waist as Falkner eased himself off the man, reaching for a plastic chair and shoving it in front of us before making his way toward one of the doors.

I then turned my attention to the chair he had offered. Slowly, I maneuvered Achilles to sit down, though his weight was even heavier as he tried to steady himself onto it. After a few more grunts, I finally got him settled. He started fidgeting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position that wouldn't hurt his leg further before pulling down his hood.

The light from above made his wrinkles more distinct, his expressions highlighted by every line, but his eyes, though tired, still showed some mirth and determination. I tried not to stare, but he reminded me of the elders back at our reserve. Even reminded me of our Clan Mother...

Backing away to give him space, I reached out for another chair to sit myself on, the back facing the hooded man. I sat there, my back arched and arms folded over the plastic frame with my legs sprawled around the chair. If Achilles gave any reaction to my manner of sitting, I paid no heed to it and tried to think of what to say next. I decided to start by inquiring about his physical state.

"So...how did you get that injury?" I hinted at his right leg. He gave off a half-smile at the question, his hand on the injured leg as he made his answer.

"Well, those thugs took the liberty of leaving a memento for sabotaging their patrons' party," he joked, leaving me to consider him crazy for speaking of it so lightly. He continued, "They shot at me while I was trying to scale a building, hoping to distance myself from them. The bullet didn't hit anything vital, but I lost my grip, falling down on the pavement. It happened so fast that I didn't have time to prepare myself to land accordingly like usual. Even worse, my leg was first to hit a bench before I completely crashed down. Thus, my fractured limb." His tone while saying that was regretful, like he was angry at himself, perhaps. Raising his head, his expression changed to reconsideration.

"Don't think that my brash actions back while we were traveling meant I was ungrateful. I didn't expect for anyone to come to my rescue, especially at such a secluded area." He glanced again at his leg before he looked back to me. "I thank you, but... Why did you come to rescue me?"

I was taken aback by that question, and turned away to think. To be honest, it was more of an impulse than my morality tugging at me to rescue him, like I couldn't go home without knowing if he got away from those thugs. I didn't even try to think whether or not I was going to survive that endeavor. When I looked back to him, all I could say was, "It was something I just had to do."

I sounded so... final.

A light chuckle came out of him as he considered my answer. My expression grew stiff from irritation. Just what was so funny about a college student trying to save a murderer from being killed by his own victims? Grunting, I continued, "Well, because of that, I missed my bus and will probably worry my roommate by staying here. But what I want to know is just how I got dragged into this mess, so could you please?" I tried not to grit my teeth while saying that. An explanation. That was all I needed before I could go home and try to forget how my act of chivalry got me into such a stressful situation.

The old man tried to clear his throat before his tone became formal. "Yes, um. Back to the matter at hand. You see, Radun." I took note that he actually remembered my nickname. "Their employers, though publicly known for progress and innovation, are undesirables whose purpose is to acquire control while secretly pulling the wool over everyone's eyes. And I was there to put a hindrance-or hopefully-a complete overhaul against it." He considered his next sentence before continuing. "Are you familiar with Abstergo Industries, boy?"

I blinked a few times. The main multipurpose company that also ran Abstergo Entertainment was more than well-known around the world, having created video games so realistic and faithful to the game's story. But even before he asked this, I and certain others were already suspicious about how the company could be so widespread, and it was one of the reasons why I took up my college major: to try, and, hopefully, be hired and find out for myself.

"They have a branch somewhere in the city, and often I hear my coworkers at the company I work for speak of it highly, though...There have been controversies." I paused. Now that he mentioned it, I looked back to my time at work. Concerning the metropolitan titan, there was usually some urgent whispering every time the word "Abstergo" was heard, or if a commercial with the triangular logo came up on one of the company's lounge televisions. If that wasn't a dead giveaway on the matter, I didn't know what was.

My brows fused together as I spoke again, "Did they have something to do with your sneaking around?" I really had hoped my question didn't sound so nosy, but my curiosity needed to be satisfied.

The old man gave a loud "Hmph," shuffling slightly in his seat. "Looks like you're already aware of the fact that the company is playing everyone for a fool in this age. Yes; they had EVERYTHING to do with my little _escapade_."

His emphasis on "escapade" only added to my want to know. The brown man must have sensed it, too. "Although, perhaps I should continue after Robert here treats my wounds." He gestured toward my left.

As I turned my head, Faulkner had returned with a small cart, bandages, bottles, and all sorts of medical gadgets like digital thermometers and a syghmometer found in the compartments. When he wheeled it over to our spot, he took another chair and positioned it in front of Achilles. The latter raised his head to the man in exasperation.

"Oh, don't give me that look, Bloodhound," Faulkner replied with eyes rolled as he lifted the other man's injured leg, ignoring the slightest cries of anguish that his friend emitted and placed it on the chair. He then proceeded to remove the boot, carelessly undoing the laces before completely peeling off the footwear to reveal the swollen calf, the nerves near the foot pumping out into shape. I thought his thighs were the main cause of the pain, but the revelation of the injury was both harsh... and peculiar.

Then I sniggered quirkily to myself.

Both men's gaze went to me. I tried to stay quiet, but then gave in and uttered, "Achilles' Heel."

First, there was a pause. The gray-haired men looked hard at me. Then Achilles started chuckling and then, reluctantly, Faulkner, and then I, joined in. Before we knew it, the whole warehouse was echoing with our laughter.

And it took us a minute of roaring out to get that pun out of our gutters.

What an out-of-place time to crack a joke.

* * *

Our little laughter fit was replaced with looks of sympathy-or uneasiness for most of the time- while trying not to make it harder on Achilles as Faulkner tried to steady him. The brown man had spent the whole time clenching onto the seat of his chair, teeth grinding and eyes closed shut, mustering all his strength to not cry out in agony after even the slightest touch. It had taken half an hour to treat the Achilles' fracture-longer than it would have taken if we went to a hospital-but that was out of the question. Even when it was all over, Davenport took a few minutes to shudder out any remaining spasms he got during the treatment, not to mention how he curled away when his other wounds, though not as serious, were being mended.

Now, after Faulkner finished up the makeshift cast on the leg, I decided to go and continue my chat with the old timer. I squeezed the bridge of my nose, trying to form the words in my head until they came out.

"Now that you're patched up, lets just assume that I'm taking in all this... um... talk of conspiracies and such... Maybe you could tell me why is it that you are keeping Abstergo at bay, that you have to risk your life to stop whatever it is they're up to?" I knew that I sounded brash in this situation, but I helped this man survive an assault, so he was right when he said I needed more than an explanation.

He cleared his throat. For someone who had just endured an excruciating medical procedure, Achilles' composure was disciplined. "My kind's plight against the company is deeper than one can comprehend. What most of the world is told to believe is that they're using the most advance technology to bring accommodating fun and learning to the masses, its entertainment business connecting one with their own ancestors." He tugged at his coat sleeve, pulling it up to reveal brown leather, the same insignia on the bike emblazoned there as a metal clasp.

"All of it is _false_. And, dare I say, _manipulative_."

The tone of his voice when he said it was painstakingly clear. It was the surest thing I had heard him say since I first found him hours ago. It took a few seconds before he spoke again with some brevity. "Their game franchise is just a medium for them to find information. For every person who plugs in their machines, the company just adds in another outlet to spy on, extracting from the user bits of their DNA that they never realized would not only be useful, but crucial in achieving Abstergo's ultimate goals. Goals, mind you," he leaned forward to look me in the eye, "that they have been trying to reach for a much longer time than you'd expect."

I tried to keep a straight face at what he said. For all this information that he was telling me, I wasn't sure if I still wanted to find out. But if what he said about those games was true, then I had to suck in my gut. I opened my mouth for the next question. "I know that they're using genetically enhanced technology, so to speak... but what do we have to offer to them? And what are their goals?"

His mouth formed a hard line, like he was reconsidering whether or not to let me know. He was staring hard at the clasp on his armband, his right hand roaming fingers around the shape. I grew uneasy the longer he spent thinking of an answer. Looking down at my feet, I started flexing my ankles, making invisible marks with the rubber base of my sneakers. Impatience grew within me and I looked back up to Achilles. It caught me slightly off guard that the old man was suddenly looking right at me. Calculatingly, I might add.

Irritation and scrutiny building, a frown formed across my face. I couldn't stand being left in the dark and blurred out. Palms facing him, I demanded, "Well? Tell me!"

This time, it was he who might have been surprised. But he recovered sooner and inquired, "Who are you, really?"

From the back of my throat emmitted a growl. Why was he asking me about my identity when I was the one asking the questions? Was this a joke to him? "You said I'd get a full explanation, and so far, all I'm getting are vague conspiracies and questions being thrown back at me. Now tell me, Mister; How does Abstergo come in with me getting into this blasted crossfire of yours?" After a pause, I said in a lower and more persuasive tone, "I didn't risk my life to know this shit, but I have. To. KNOW."

Whatever panic and fear I hid before was catching up to me. I could hear the clenched shuddering from my voice. I just wanted an answer, thinking I was so sure but now all I wanted was to go home and hear Stephane nag at me about the bus and his jerky that I never got to buy.

But even as these thoughts occurred, the man seemed unfazed by my outburst and replied, "Tell me your full name first. And I will reveal all you must know."

Calm. Determined. Who was he to be like this in such a conversation?

The word "must" lingered in my head, though. It made me think that, whatever he would..._will_ tell me... was on a "need-to-know" basis... for me. His expression was patient. Anticipating my answer. I hated to think it, but maybe he already knew. He just needed my answer.

My expression grew stiff again, but I sighed in surrender. Then, after a long time of using a nickname, I carefully answered.

"Danohue... Ratonhnhaké:ton Danohue."

**END OF CHAPTER 2**

* * *

**Author's** **note**: Do you guys know how LONG I've been waiting to crack that Achilles' Heel joke. Since AC 3 got out, that's what! Oh, come ON, fandom! Where are all the heel jokes, huh? XD

And also, Connor's civilian name. (Yep, that's what I call it.) Funny thing about Native American names: originally, the child was to take their mother's surname, if surnames existed for most of their history. It was only with European influence that the father's surname took account instead. Also, many Native Americans, particularly those who converted to Christianity, took up European names. (Not that Ziio converted, I mean...)So, if you're wondering, then yes. "Danohue" will be Kanieh:tiio (Connor's mom...forgot how to spell it, sorry) family name. And of course, Connor's borne native name.

And I'm just gonna go with Stephane or some other non-Native person giving him the nickname "Radun", like they just started calling him that and it became a thing. (And completely butchering the original meaning, yea.)

Next update: Febuary 4-9. Yeah, very unsure since I failed the last deadline. OTL (this is why I'm aspiring to be an illustrator and NOT an author.)

Please review, and stay tuned! Itchy is out! e)/


	4. Chapter 3: Questioning History

**Theme:** Office comedy, Drama, Action-Adventure, Family/Friendship, Educational (?), Crossover (both the games, novels, and comic series of the fandom) and just plain humor.

First person narration. Mostly Connor Kenway's POV (Point of view), but it may change as the story goes.

**Warning:** Rated M for weird parodies, discussion of politics, cursing of sorts, violence and gore, racial slurs, implied shipping, occasional innuendos, writing errors, slight OOC-ness. Oh, and for this chapter, spoilers. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

**Disclaimer:** Most of the characters are canon and belong to Ubisoft. I merely borrowed them for this fic.

**Notice:** Alright, about half of this chapter will be Achilles's long explanation about Abstergo Industries, the Templars and why the Assassins are trying to stop them (And maybe a spoiler alert is more than needed here) So if you want, you can skip to the part where Radun leaves the warehouse. (I mean, it's an Assassin's Creed AU. I'm sure by now, you guys all know about the Templars, Assassins, First Civilization, etc. ) But then again, the info was bent abit to fit the fanfic, so if you'd still like to read (and watch me TRY to sound like I'm typing up Achilles' point of view), then I ain't stopping you. O u O

Just find this marking: "*****" This indicates the beginning and end of the history-lesson part of the chapter, so you can choose to either read it straight or skim to the rest of the story.

Enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter 3_**

**_The Warehouse, Outside Boston City Limit_**

**_Achilles' POV_**

_Danohue._

Did I hear it right?

I was wondering why, aside from the fact that the boy had saved me, was I so compelled to shine light on his confusion. And was even intrigued by the nature of his actions. He had saved a mysterious man he had never known before out of an 'impulse'. Surprisingly, even, that he was unharmed from the ordeal, even when the shooter had a silencer attached to his gun. And his insistence to acquire knowledge. He was not only familiar with Abstergo Industries, but even so far as to asset that he didn't ignore the conspiracies surrounding the name. Took it into account, even.

Lastly, was his appearance. For the first few hours, I didn't get a good look at him. The pain of my injury and the need to escape from the scene had prevented me from concentrating on those. Until now. A young man who had just arrived into adulthood, his features were a mix of intimidation, hardy and, judging from his real name, Ratonhnhaké:ton, native. The freckles on his upper face gave support to another element.

His way of speech was fluent. Not that street talk crap most young people his age would slur out. Even when he cursed, it sounded grammatically-inclined. It was, to say, clear and intermediate English.

And familiar, for there was only one other person I knew who had such a speech pattern.

But now was not the time to indulge on old allies. I had to answer to Radun's questions, especially now that I know who he was. More so that I know, even.

"Very well. I'm satisfied with your answer." My look more serious than before, I proceeded with the monologue. "The business titan has been searching for decades to further strengthen its influence and power. But their search was far deeper than the company, and more ongoing than even we know of. It's good that you're in a...comfortable position." A comment on the boy's strange manner of sitting, then I called out to the door Faulkner entered. "Robert! You might want to bring some refreshments! It's gonna be a long night!"

When I turned back to Radun, he looked puzzled by my suggestion, so I cleared it out. "The information I am about to bestow upon you will be misunderstood if I don't start from the beginning, so sharpen your ears now." A nod from him signalled me to continue. "When I said 'more on-going', I meant that it has been going on millenia after millenia, from the very beginning of history." I paused before looking at him with questioning eyes. "Are you familiar with the Knights Templar?"

The way his eyebrows raised meant it rang a bell. "Yes. My history class at the campus had a segment on that. They were even part of an encrypting discussion by one of our professors." Although he tried to sound matter-of-factly, I could sense the doubt in his tone. "Are they significant to your cause?"

I snorted. So sure did he sound. "Not just significant. They are the whole reason of our struggles. The Knights Templar." My expression was collective, like I was recalling an old page I read in a book. "History depicts them as a noble but disputed organization during the Crusades Era in the Holy land. People can't make up their mind if they were misunderstood saints or wolves wearing sheep's clothing or scavengers looking for treasure to hoard, what with all the different ideas people have about them. But this bit is certain: the French king at the time found an excuse to have them terminated and the Order was completely disbanded, which started conspiracies like the Friday the 13th myth, connections to the Freemasons and hidden bounty in the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem." Another pause before I asked, "Is all that I had said been taught in your classes?"

His right hand was placed similarly to that of The Thinking Man, deep in thought before answering. "More or less, yes. All that was taught to us. Though, I think one professor kept rolling her eyes the entire discussion." His last comment earned him wide eyes from me, but I quickly recovered before he even noticed.

"She should. Because after this, you'll most likely throw away every "fact" you heard from those discussions and never take part in them ever again." The bashful look he gave me was gratifying. I didn't have to say that he knew that this was going to be the eye opener of the century.

"In reality, the Templars were only using their identity as a Christian organization to hide their true intentions. While everyone thought they sought to secure the Holy Land for the Pope, they were actually searching. Searching for artifacts, but not Holy artifacts with promises of giving advantage to the Crusaders and spreading religious unity. They were artifacts far too complex for mundane thinking to comprehend. Artifacts that were made to give the wielder immense power and control over all of humanity. For you see, boy, the Order sought peace, but through control. They claim of a realization: that humanity can only achieve true unity if all were equal. If all were given their purposes and followed a set of rules whole-heartedly and without question. And to do that, they must take away from humanity the one thing that makes us what we are."

I stopped to take in his body langauge. If before, I told him to be comfy, he was anything but. Eyes fixated, mouth curved into a straight line, posture enduring, holding onto the chair to channel his anticipation as he waited for me to tell him more. And I beseeched him. "Our freedom."

His stare went down, absorbing. I gave him time while I thought to myself on how to go further with the discussion. Finally, he looked back up and said, "They...wanted to make us _slaves_?" The last word was spoken with disgust, but knowing the history of his people, I couldn't blame him for it.

Just then, Faulkner came out of the other door, carrying a thermostat, a bottle of water, some styrofoam cups and a foldable stool. As he settled himself, he propped up the stool and placed two of the cups on it. As he poured each up, I bobbed my head to the boy, hoping that my old friend would catch on and he did. Lifting one of the cups before offering it to Radun, who with a hurried 'Thank you.' took it an started to blow at the steam. Faulkner then handed me the bottle and hurried of, murmuring something about "pain killers".

I opened the bottle and put the opening to my mouth, taking small sips before talking again. "Not really slaves. More like...mindless, moving toys, so to speak." It was hard trying not to snort after seeing his reaction, but I was being serious here. "So, even after the public disban of the Order, it secretly carries on, trying to take back power from behind the scenes. And along the centuries, there have been recorded "incidents" and "catastrophes" that most never even think to connect with the Templars and our clash with them." I continued to name a good many: the Renaissance, the Inquisition, the Eastern empires, the Era of Exploration, countless revolutions and assassinations from both sides and even up to the Cold War. As well as all the subliminal messages and theories from the time passed. But finally, we got to the part where I would answer his questions specifically.

"And with the coming of the twentieth century came the emerging of the company that I have been atetmpting to sabotage for years. For the company, dear boy, was formed as a frontal cover for the Order. The largest pharmaceutical company to date, with every household in America having at least three products made by Abstergo. And you may have already figured this out, but it's been heavily involved with the international market and diplomacy. They do more than make antidepressants." One last gulp and I twisted the cap back on, saving the water to swallow the pain killers Robert would get later.

"Just recently, I have uncovered that their "video games" and "humanitarian medical research" are just a sample of their most in-depth innovation. Around the near end of the 80s, they have gone further with their genetic technologies, to the point of extracting information... memories even ... from a person's DNA." Halting the talk, I cleared my throat. "While we're on the subject matter, are you really willing to know all this? You're not going to fess up to anyone, will you?" From the situation, I doubt he would. That didn't limit my paranoia, though.

Radun's answer was well-thought out, if not with a hint of sarcasm. "I don't think I need to tell the police that I had helped a conspirator who may or may not be part of an underground resistant force and escaped the scene of the crime with me driving his motorcycle, _smudging_ the gears with my fingerprints."

Did I say sarcasm? I meant burning. Like the words had burned themselves into the conversation.

At least he was more than aware of the situation, sad as it is. I continued. "Very well. If you know what you're getting yourself into. Where were we...Oh, yes." My right hand went to the metal clasp on my arm brace, indicating it to the boy. The young man stared at it as I raised it to the light. "Do you know what this symbol represents?"

He eyed the clasp with curiosity and, hopefully, recollection. If he was who he said he was, then something will click. For now, his looks hardened as he stared down at my arm brace. "I...feel like I've seen it before... Somewhere. A long time ago..." Slowly were the words from, obvious that he still didn't remember it fully. But I trusted that he will.

It suddenly dawned on me that meeting this boy was too good a coincidence. It was a risk, but perhaps he will find interest in our cause.

And so I enlightened him more. "Me and Faulkner are just one of the many people who have dedicated most of our years battling this ongoing threat to humanity's treasure of free will. Conflicts between our kind and the Templars have lasted for as long as history can recall itself. Conflicts that, as long as there are people willing to fight for their freedom yet others will still try to demolish it, are endless." My tone was duty-bound, though I couldn't ignore the tired feeling I got after saying that. All those years... "Sadly, unlike out enemies, we grew little over the recent decade. In fact, those of us in the Americas are more scattered than they used to be a ten or 20 years ago. But we won't stop. Especially not with this new information I have on Abstergo."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Robert act similarly to my words, arms crossed and head bowed. We both saw the tragedy. Saw many of our brothers and sisters jeopardized and hunted down. Saw how the Brotherhood diminished into small bands. But before I could further go down nightmare lane, Radun spoke out again. "There's a rumor around the district that I work at about people leaking mind-numbing information from the company's research branch. Something about escaped patients being driven mad."

The fact that he had that knowledge quickened my pulse. it was close to the truth that I had uncovered. So close, in fact, that there was no way this boy had "just heard it" from rumors. But I tried to look more intrigued than troubled. "You probably never thought that those rumors could actually be... what was that?"

Suddenly becoming alert, I scanned the room. A strange noise made itself known all of a sudden. Faulkner had sensed it as well and we were straining out ears. Was it just me...

Or did I hear music?

"Oh! Right." I heard the young Native say. Turning back to him, my sudden halt to attention became surprise. He was standing up now, trying to fish out something from his jeans' pockets until his hand returned with a red cellphone. Triumph washing over his face, he clicked the phone into activation, but cursing slightly while muttering the time. 1:25, I heard him say, then he pressed whatever button would activate the call, cancelling the music I had now realized was an instrumental, and put it up his ear.

"Hello? Hey, umm...yeah, I got the ticket... No, no. The bus I was on suddenly broke down." Him lying about his location was quick thinking, if you ask me. "Calm down, Stephane! Look, I'm sorry for making you worry...Alright, alright! Just stop slurring. Yes, I can tell that those were slurs... Okay, I know you were worried." A tired expression was let out on his face as whoever was on the other line keep talking, him making hurried replies. "I'm just waiting for another bus. Okay. I'll call you when I get on it. I'll see you later. Bye." And with that, he finally ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. Then, with a futile expression, he turned back to us.

"So...was that your roommate?", half-jokingly I inquired. Looks like I couldn't give the boy the complete explanation to this mess I had unconsciously dragged him into. Sighing, I started digging into the pockets of my own coat.

"Umm...yes. I told him to wait up on me. I didn't think he would actually do that, but..." Not even bothering to finish his sentence, Radun adjusted his own hood, before he looked at me with exhausted eye. And, as if apologizing, he said, "I have to go, but I also have no idea where we are at the moment. It was too dark to remember any landmarks for me to use as directions, so I think I'm going to need a ride." He left off that part for it to sink in, but it immediately did and i found Robert and myself looking at each other questioningly.

"You go. Drop him off where he needs to be." I finally said, sounding definite.

After a few blinks, Robert's confused came off and he rebuked, "I'm grateful for the kid bringing you back here, but no way am i going to leave an injured old man all alone in a warehouse."

"'Old man'?" I snorted back. "Look who's talking? No, you have to take to hismhome."

And before he could try to get out of that argument, I added, "If anyone finds those dead guards, most likely they'll find witnesses and if he-", I indicated to the almost ignored Radun. "-goes back near the station, they just might suspect him. And I think you know where that would lead to, yes?"

Hoping that it didn't sound as brutal to them both as it might have been, I waited for my friend to reply. As he reluctantly nodded, we both faced the boy again. He was awaiting a say in the matter.

Faulkner made to tell him first. "Alright, kid. I'll take you home. But we're taking a very quick route to wherever it is you live at. Now wait here." That said, he went over to the cups and thermostat and tidied everything up before moving away from the chairs. I heard him call out, "I'll send in one of the boys to keep an eye on you, Bloodhound!" before disappearing from view.

I and Radun were left to regard each other. It had been an interesting meeting for both of us. The silent exchange of looks was very unnerving, more perhaps because we had gotten to know our own shared issue with only a few hours of knowing each other than anything else. Inhaling slowly, I broke the silence once again.

"I'm sorry if whatever information I've shared with you may also get you into harm's way. But I believe it isn't legit for you to not know what you got yourself into, saving my life." It must have sound sarcastic at some point, but I really felt guilty about him getting involved with my mission. I was just ashamed that I didn't do his curiosity justice and he had to leave, still questioning the events.

But the boy's reply was surprisingly firm. "Please don't apologize. It was my impulsiveness that dragged me into your endeavour. But I don't regret saving your hide out there." And then his eyes, for the first time since we had met, stared directly at mine. Then, half-heartedly, he chided, "At least some light has been shed on my inquiry, no matter how many unanswered questions are still left." Then, to my surprise, he did a quick bow at me before raising up, his mouth curved into the smallest form of a smile. "You just get better, Mister Davenport."

For a few seconds, I didn't know how to react to that. Then, whatever enlightened feeling I got from it sank in and I smiled back to his altruism, shaking my head in amused doubt.

Just like her, I thought. After all these years. And the boy was living proof of her mark.

The object I took out of my coat was a card. Beckoning him to come closer, I handed it to him when he came near. While he read the card, I spoke again. "I assume that you are indirectly my responsibility now. If anything happens around your campus or neighborhood, don't hesitate to call. And perhaps we can discuss further about Abstergo. Maybe share more gossip about the company."

After tracing his sight around the card a few times, he pocketed it and looked like he was about to say something when a honk echoed through the warehouse. We both turned to look at the door and there was Faulkner, putting my motorbike into gear, waiting for the boy.

I noticed the boy stiffen slightly, looking at Robert and back to me. The look I returned to him was, for my part, authorizing but comforting. "Go,", I assured him. "Wouldn't want to worry your friend now."

His posture was more conflicted on whether to leave or not, but before he went off, he faced me and, right arm stretched out with some hesitation, offered me his hand. "It was nice of you to take your time with me. Thank you as well."

Now it was my turn to be unsure, but only temporarily. I chuckled softly before extending my own arm and shook his hand in mine. When he let go, Radun gave off one last look of indecisiveness before turning around to head off outside.

There he went. Back to his...oh wait. I almost forgot.

"By the way, boy-I mean, Radun!" I quickly shouted out to him. "What's the name of that nifty piece I heard from your phone?"

From where I was sitting, it looked like he was about to straddle onto the back seat of the motorbike. He may have heard me because the last thing I herad him say was "One Thousand Dreams by Feint!" before the roar of the bike erupted and they rode of.

'One Thousand Dreams', hmm? Maybe, will all the new gadgetry society offered these days, I would look into that.

* * *

**_Attucks National University, 45 minutes later_**

**_Radun's/Connor's POV_**

Never had I been so happy than at that moment to have felt the dew-covered lawn under my shoes. Almost an hour ago, Robert Faulkner had driven me out of the compound, leaving Achilles there to - hopefully - wait for any attending help to arrive while we were on our way. But unlike my own careful but steady driving, the aged man had ignored the speed limit while choosing questionable by shorter routes, remarkably avoiding most, if not all, confrontations with traffic police. And all the while, I clung onto his body like a wet cat to a scratch post. (Funny, because the word "scratch" was involved in my name...)

Somehow, through some leaked thought from my latching, I had asked Faulkner to slow down when we had passed a gas station. Thinking a tank refill was actually in order, he slowed the bike down and eased into the self-service aisle. As we both got off, I asked about getting something from the nearby store, but he commanded that I was to stay here and refill the tank, probably paranoid that I might bail and warn the nearest authority figure of what I had learned.

But with the current situation in general, that was unlikely. I insisted that he go into the store for me then and, while he begrudgingly murmured about my "yellow-bellied death grip on his sides", stomped towards the glass doors and entered the store.

When the tank was full and we had paid for both the gas and the item he had purchased for me, we were off again, only this time I wasn't as clingy and praying to the spirits for dear mercy as earlier. Eventually, the road became more familiar and the scenery of my campus came to view. And now, I was off the bike and relished the slippery feel of the wet grass under my soles. I turned to Faulkner to voice out both gratitude and an apology, but he held a hand up to stop me.

"Look", he spoke bemusedly. "I have to be off again. And quick. If you should know anything about my and Achilles' enemies, it's that they have eyes and ears everywhere. I can't idle for long, so farewell for now." When he finished, I didn't argue further, but merely nodded my understanding. Perhaps that was enough of a 'thank you' for him, because before he thrashed the side bar, I saw a smile under his thevisor of the helmet. Then he drove away, him and the bike diminishing from my view.

Finally. Home. I took a deep and long breath, repeated the process to get the previous happenings out of my system for even a smidge. Then I tore my gaze away from the road and turned around to face the four-story dormitory bulding. It still had a few windows lit up, indicating that sleep was not an option for some of the other occupiers. As I eyed the entrance, I saw that the main hall of the first floor was lit brightly. Good. that meant the guards were still awake.

Perhaps it was the anticipation of some decent rest, but my feet started for the entrance immediately, shoes probably muddy fro crossing over lawn but nothing I could care less for. Soon, I was near the entrance when I heard some ramblings from the hall. French ramblings.

Before I knew it, a familiar figure stopped arguing with one fo the guards and spotted me. For a moment, I didn't know what his face was expressing, but as he paced towards me, I could clearly see it. Was it worry? Relief? Anger?

* * *

Unforgivingly, it was a mix of all three.

After I had hung up on him, Stephane left confused, then eventually anxious and worrisome, about my current location. More than an hour later, because I still wasn't home, he grew impatient and called me while I was still at the warehouse (I didn't tell him about that and just said, again, that the bus I was boarding had a malfunction.) But his uneasiness grew and he decided to wait at the guard's station, pacing about. When the guards had tried to calm him down, he heatedly declined their offers and eventually, grew so impatient and aggravated that he started his well-known slurring montage.

So when he finally saw me approach the building, he didn't hesitate to fast-walk towards me. But from the relief that first washed over him, my roommate snapped and started lashing at me with angry but concerned barking. He cursed me for cutting him off. The fact that he was worried guilty and sick. When I answered his next call so vaguely and left him at a cliffhanger. And a few instances, he had tried to lash his worries at me physically, punching at my arms when I wasn't able to dodge the blows. But I let him pour his fury at me. I more than deserved it.

While ignoring the weirdly humored tease the guards had given us about how we were like a wife beating up a husband who was caught coming home late, me and the Frenchman made our way back to our dorm room. (Stephane continued his cursing once more for a few seconds.) When we finally got in and closed the door behind us, he immediately slumped onto the chair near the desk, arms crossed and hard look still on me. "Well?" He curtly began. "Aren't you going to tell me why you took so long?" Although he was obviously angry with me, I noticed the slight hint of relief that, yes, I was finally home.

A soft, uneasy sounds emitted out of me, feeling the guilt and burden from causing him such disarray. I still used the bus maintenance excuse, but I suppose his still skeptic expression was to be expected. the bruise he had mentioned was indeed on his left eye, a cotton ball soaked with some Betadine taped near it to treat the swelling skin.

Then I suddenly remembered my backpack. I slid it off my back and arms before unzipping it, digging into the bag until I felt with my fingers what I was looking for. I took it out, then tossed it over to Stephane.

He caught the pack with both hands before eyeing it. Beef jerky. Just like he had ask, courtesy of Mister Faulkner earlier at the gas station. The hard expression lessened, but they didn't completely soften as he turned his gaze back to me, mouth twisted into half frown curve, brows inverted while he looked at me judgementally, then he nodded.

"Hmph. I had thought that you forgot about the jerky. Fair enough." Nonchalantingly he waved the pack at me before opening it, pulling out the first strip of dried beef, twirling the strip with his finger before taking a generous bite from it.

Relief washing over me this time, I dropped my bag onto the desk next to Stephane, then proceeded towards the bunker bed. Merely thrashing off my sneakers and stripping away the hoodie, I was left in my socks, shirt and jeans. Too tired to even bother with the jeans, though, I lazily made my way up the top bunk and just flopped onto the mattress.

Through a mouth full of jerky, I heard Chapheau grumble at me. "Don't think this means you're off the hook." The tone was less angry now, so I merely muttered my acknowledgement of his statement. Before sleep could completely wash over me, I took out the card Achilles had given me before I left the warehouse.

A decently printed card, it had a sleek, black, white and red design on it, the symbol he had seen on the bike, the arm brace on Achilles' left arm, and from somewhere in his past, was placed in gradient rendition on the right side. The information written went like this:

Safe-keeping the human evolution.

**Hiding in plain sight.**

**Through the path of truth.**

**We are Assassins.**

**1-207-3336**

The new information would be realized in the morning. I did a quick prayer to the spirits before mumbling a "good night" to a still munching away Stephane and, then pocketed the card once more and allowed myself slumber.

**END OF CHAPTER 3**

* * *

**Author's note:** So... how many of you skipped the history lessons and how many actually bothered to read it? /SHOT

And, as promised, mixed POVs! Didn't I tell you guys? XDD I hope I had captured Achilles' personality in this chapter.

Okay, so some of you have probably figured out that Achilles knows about a certain Iroquois woman. Well, it's actually based off an interactive conversation in the game with Achilles and a bit of hinting from the game-to-book rendition "Forsaken". No other hinting from me about that, now.

And now for the info written on Achilles' card. Swear to God, tried to come up with a decent card to finally show that poof! they're ASSASSINS. And with some words based on the actual creed. But hopefully, I can make that work for the later chapters. As for the ringtone, I think it maye have been too early for Feint to have made that song, but let's just go with it, ok?

And...phones! Pay attention tot he usage of phones in this story, by the way. Not really necessary, but just try, I guess. :P

Update of next chapter: February 13-16. Again, unsure, but now that I actually finished this before the last deadline, maybe I can finally get my pace better in writing.

Also, would anyone like to become a Beta Reader for me? Even if I'm used to the English language, I still make TONS of mistakes while writing, but I don't always remember to correct them. So, um...anynone wanna accept the offer? Please?

Reviews and suggestions are welcome! Bye, all!

~Itchy


	5. Chapter 4: The Morning Routine

**Name of fanfic:** Dial-Up Assassin

**Theme:** Office comedy, Drama, Action-Adventure, Family/Friendship, Educational (?), Crossover (both the games, novels, and comic series of the fandom) and just plain humor.

First person narration. Mostly Connor Kenway's POV (Point of view), but it may change as the story goes.

**Warning:** Rated M for weird parodies, discussion of politics, cursing of sorts, violence and gore, racial slurs, implied shipping, occasional innuendos, writing errors, slight OOC-ness.

**Disclaimer:** Most of the characters are canon and belong to Ubisoft. I merely borrowed them for this fic. (Some of the characters you may THINK are OCs are actually NOT OCs.) And Connor's current nickname here is Radun.

**Notice: ** Aaaaaand I just realized that I am NOT good with summarizing themes. OTL Also, sorry (so much!) that this was 2 weeks later than the date I first scheduled it for. I was so distracted by my drawing tablet and Paint Tool SAI. So much fun and catching up on my part as an illustrator. Luckily, I'm finished with the other update for "Know Thyself", so I can finally continue on here. Also, laptop is fixed! MS Word is definitely gonna make this faster for me. XDD

Okay. Read on!

* * *

_**Chapter 4**_

_**Attucks National University, Boston, Massachusetts **_

_**Three days later**_

_**Stephane's POV**_

It had to be the third time that morning that the stupid alarm clock was yammering up that awful ringtone. And for the third time, I tried to get rid of the fog in my sleepy head as my arm sloppily reached over so I could get a look at the time. I was slightly surprised by the lack of gadgetry, my hand roaming around the bare top of the night stand.

Slurs were ready to slide out of my mouth when I decided to actually wake up. Reluctantly, I raised myself from my slumber, stretching my limbs and letting out a whooping yawn. As my hand went to rub around my face, my eyes tried to make sense of the still-blurry scene.

When it did become clear, I had spotted the alarm clock on the floor beside the bunker bed, still ringing with the time blinking in green lines. The vague memory of knocking down the clock from frustration now came back to me as I bent over to pick it up. The green lines formed the numbers '6:25' with a small 'A.M.' found on the right side of the five.

An unpleasant grunt came from the back of my throat. This was college. _College_. Why, oh _why_, was I forced to wake up at a completely inactive hour? _And during spring break?! _

"So, you finally checked out of Hotel Dreamland?"

The answer to those questions came with a sarcastic but humored greeting.

I begrudgingly turned to the source of that young but husky voice. Sitting in front of our desk, the ever-enigmatic Radun was wearing a somewhat exasperated look despite it being so early. His hair was tied in his trademark hald-ponytail with the long braid hanging loose on the left side of his face. The crumbs near his lips suggested he was munching on some biscuits—or crackers, as Americans would call it. Wearing a grey sleeveless, white with blue stripes jogging pants, and black socks, his attire gave me the deduction that he was _just_ about to go on his usual morning routine.

But not without a warm breakfast, which was where I came in.

I gave him the most _'what do you think, you jack-ass?_' look my morning sag would let me muster up before putting the clock back on the night stand. Then I lazily kicked off my covers and swung my legs over to the side of the bottom bunker bed. Before I began rising up, I noticed that my friend had a briefcase open on the desk.

Sighing, I looked at him with concerned eyes. That briefcase had become customary of our mornings, but it had never failed to worry me. Filled from top to bottom from the inside with stolen snapshots, newspaper article clippings, and notes with scribbled information on them, the large carrying apparatus symbolized everything other people didn't know about the half-Native that I did: Radun had a grudge (an understatement) with the all-too infamous Abstergo Industries.

Long ago after we had first moved together, he eventually revealed to me his secret 'hobby' of keeping track of the events and updates concerning any suspicious activity connected to the company. He had begged me out of trust—of which I was more than honored to uphold— that I not utter a single word of it. _Any of it._

And to be frank, I understood his secrecy. I had my own quarrels with that company and it was no secret that there as something fishy going on with Abstergo.

Lately, though, his usual skimming of his conspiracy tabs was becoming more frequent. Instead of just an hour, he had spent several separate hours since he came home late with my jerky. My concern grew and I had constantly asked him about it, but he would merely answer with obscure dismissal or, annoyingly, ignore me altogether.

And I supposed today would be no different. As I stood up, I made another lengthy stretch and a very shoddy 'good morning' to him before facing him again. My concerned look earlier must have caused him to clean up and close the briefcase hurriedly, almost apologizing for my worries. Despite his tough and stubborn demeanor, Radun was irrefutably considerate sometimes.

After sliding the briefcase back under the desk, his mouth was about to open in speech but I quickly raised my hand to dismiss it.

"_Un moment_, my friend." I replied with some urgency. Then I went over to our shared drawer to take out my own training clothes and some bath things. As I made my way to the bathroom—You know, this was _exactly_ what I did three days ago. Just less hangover-induced— I turned my head to him, saying. "Let me wash the sleep off first. Then I can please your stomach."

He probably saw my snorting before I, like before, had slammed the door behind me.

* * *

Ten minutes and a sink full of dirty kitchen utensils, me and Danohue finally got to breakfast. On our table were plates with breakfast burritos—no egg yokes, non-mechanically toasted slices of bread—because I don't believe in toasters, some margarine, a glass of mixed fruit juice—for Radun, and a mug filled with medium coffee—for _moi_. Radun offered to help, but I still did most of the preparing. I preferred being mostly in-charge of our little kitchenette, _hurr hurr_.

We were seated on the round, wooden chair facing the kitchenette. As I did a quick 'thank you' to the heavens, I peaked at the Amerindian doing his usual thanking of… the spirits, I guess. By now, I had deduced that his 'Nawa' or 'Nawen' meant 'thank you' as well. As we started devouring our burritos, I chanced a glance at him. Some pride clung to me, seeing his obviously pleased face at the taste, but his eyes were rather distant. Was he still thinking about last time? What exactly happened before he came home with my jerky?

As if sensing my gaze, his brown eyes shifted upwards just as I turned away. Whatever was going on, I didn't want it too look like I was imprudent.

Me. Stephane Chapheau. Imprudent. Well, perhaps occasionally I was, but that was justified in this situation.

"Umm... Stephane?" he spoke up a bit sheepishly.

"What do you need, Radun?" I answered, trying not to sound too anticipating.

Turning back to him, I saw my roommate fiddle with his hands in concentration, one set of fingers over the other with the burrito half-eaten in his grasp. As he collected his words, I took a sip from my coffee, awaiting his next statement.

I heard him gulp up some of the burrito before he spoke in an unsure tone. "About how I've been acting lately… There's a reason for that. I know, you've been nagging at me to tell you, but… I think I should wait until I can tell you in the words I know you would…_react_ to… properly." From the steam coming out of my mug, I could see the other's own worried look right at me before he continued. "I'm very sorry. _Very_. I probably worried you a lot lately."  
_  
'Probably' doesn't BEGIN to cover it._ I thought to myself exasperatedly. But at least he was opening up the topic himself. With a tiny smile and a sigh, I straightened out my slouched position on my own chair and leaned over for Radun to hear my words.

"Well, if it's something you need to clarify first, then I suppose I can forgive you for avoiding the topic." I half-joked, but the next set of words were more serious. "But I want to remind you that I've been at your sides since you first came to Attucks. Whatever it is that is bothering you—and maybe it's about that Abstergo thing, then—", I couldn't help snickering when he gave me a warning look at mentioning the company out loud. A small revenge for his ignoring me. "—just know that I've got your back." I reached over the toast and slapped on some of the margarine for myself. Then dipping some of it with my coffee, I took a bite before continuing with a mouthful of toast. "But you _are_ gonna tell me eventually…_oui_?"

Maybe his face became less troubled, but I still sensed the uncertainty. Still, he nodded, which meant that he _was_ going to tell me sooner or later. I was happy with that.

The rest of the our breakfast was done with idle chatting: talking about the frat who attacked our windows, noticing my almost-healed bruise, me teasing Radun about that _belle_ of a council president in his philosophy class, him asking about that bartender job being offered to me. Little bits of our lives sprawled out onto the table to be exchanged and conversed about.

At least this bit of our routine was something I would never want to change.

* * *

_Cher seigneur…_

I felt like my legs were burning.

After breakfast, we had rinsed the bits and smudges off the plates so they could be easier to wash later. Then, with a competitive spirit, Radun had led us both down the floors after we had grabbed our water bottles and towels then locked the door and given the keys to the Monsieur Taggert in the guard house. And no sooner did I turn my head that the Amerindian was racing through the pavement surrounding the field, encouraging me to sprint after him. Our usual morning jog continued after that… Not counting my occasional hangovers.

No matter how often I trained with him, Radun always had the upper hand in these jogs. But then again, I wasn't exactly a track and field competitor for the campus, now was I? The boy had embraced the grass fields and high volts like a raccoon in air shoes. He looked so much bigger and older than his age tells people and he was almost as tall as I was five years his senior. And thirty minutes later, he was doing all too well with endurance.

A matter of which I really sucked at right now.

"Wait…Ah, _merde!_" I frantically panted out as I urged my already tired body to keep moving forward. "God damn it, Radun! Not everyone can endure this!"

"Really?" I heard him shout back to me from eight meters away. "Well, maybe you should have given consideration to lengthening our jogs! It's only been half an hour!" Even from a distance, I could hear the rare teasing he actually gave me back. He was jogging in place now, letting me catch up with him.

I grunted between harsh breathing and pants before yelling back. "Yes! Thirty minutes _straight!_ You don't even stop to have a five minute break!" Maybe it was because of his athletics, but damn it. I was in this damn routine as well. Some consideration would've been welcome.

"Don't be such a vegetable!", again, he urged me to follow. I quickly raised my bottle after opening it, taking a generous gulp of the mineral water. And as I whipped my sweat off, I looked onward to him. _I'll show you who's a vegeta—_

Oh.

While I was resting, the boy had continued his jog. Or rather, continued with a few meters. Because someone was walking along the fields, absentmindedly reading a book. And as luck would have it, he crossed over the same pavement Radun was just about to jog through. Seconds later, they had collided against each other, the Amerindian knocking over the other guy, both dropping onto pavement and grass as the book and a briefcase I had just noticed were flung into the air. Alert, I quickly sprinted over to their direction as I recognized the person he had bumped into. I had better hurry before things went uncomfortable.

* * *

_**Connor/Radun's POV**_

One minute, I was taunting Stephane about being a vegetable—which he _was_, mind you—before I had bumped into something, or rather, someone. I didn't have enough time to recollect myself and we both stumbled onto the ground, me landing on the other person. After finding my bearings, I grunted as I raised myself halfway, then my eyes went over to a book lying on the ground next to us. The black cover with a heart or apple torn in half on it had the title "Beyond Good & Evil" in white mixed-font letters. A bit to the right and an ebony briefcase laid discarded on the ground next to the book.

Perhaps it has useless, but I turned over to the other… And greatly wished I had told myself to run.

My vision was welcomed with slightly graying brown hair that was slicked back, skin not so pale but enough to make its palette obvious, white long-sleeved shirt buttoned up and tucked in, dark blue slacks and Oxford shoes. And eyes blue enough to pierce the defensive walls I had perched up around me. All these I had spent two semesters trying to avoid futilely.

Feeling uncomfortable by his presence, I quickly raised myself and gave the man some space. Then, offering him my hand out of etiquette, I discretely said, "Sorry for that, Mister Kenway. I couldn't stop in time when I saw you."

Yes. Haytham Kenway, the current head of the Communication Arts department and occasional professor of philosophy.

Or in other words, my biological father.

The older man started rubbing at parts of his body that had the misfortune of hitting the pavement instead of the soft grass. After dusting himself off, he slightly rose himself and eyes my offered hand in scrutiny. Then his eyes shot up to my expression— I had really hoped it didn't show my discomfort too much— before his own eased and he nodded. A hand first went to pick up the book nearby before the other took a firm hold on my hand.

As I tugged him upwards, Kenway found his balance again and stood up with his usual poised manner. He then proceeded to dusk off some remaining dirt before addressing me, "No harm done… Except that I forgot to mark my page before our collision." He joked with tired humor before he went over to the briefcase and slid his grip on the handle and lifted it.

As he turned back to me, he looked like the perfect image of a modern-day scholar. And I _mean_ perfect.

The CA head looked back to me, his expression changed to some hint of apology himself. "Still, my book's misplacement is a small problem to burden myself with. After all, I wasn't exactly watching my surroundings either." He then looked me up and down, making it hard for me to hide my insecurity at being eyed on, before he commented idly, "Going on an early jog, Mister Danohue?"

"Well, umm…yes." It was all I could reply with. Like I said before, I had tried hard to avoid this man, with every time he and I meet an awkward mistake at best. Even with all his good manners and politeness. But I knew that those were all farce to his real self.

Not that I would let on about that. "Good morning to you, sir.", I quickly greeted as an afterthought.

The greeting might have been too much a welcome to the older man than I wanted it to be. His interest showed on his face as he replied back. "And to you as well. And speaking of which…"

A buzzing had suddenly stared. As if on cue, his hand reached over inside his slack's pocket before fishing out a Blackberry, tapping the buttons with both thumbs while holding both the phone and his briefcase handle—Honestly, how can he do that without feeling sore?— then stopping to look at me again. "I have an off-semester lecture on this book's theme." he indicated to the said book. "If, perhaps, you are free later—then again, this is spring break, but still—, you could turn up and participate?"

The way he had insisted on it. It was so charming and knowing. And this wasn't the first time he had invited me to such lectures. I both wanted to take him on his offer and toss it back to him in decline. Thinking of using a less harsh version of the latter, I immediately thought of my thesis.

Yes. Surely Kenway will understand the need to finish the damn thing. Understand my want for a high grade on my records. I started to form the reply in my head. Was even about to started the sentence…

"Hey! What kept you so long, _mon ami_?"

My sigh sounded too relieved, but to hell with it. Stephane had _finally_ caught up with me.

I looked over my shoulder and indeed, the Frenchman was making his way towards us. And right at the nick of time, too! Turning back to the professor, I saw him give my friend a disapproving look, obviously not enchanted at being disturbed from a rare conversation between us.

These two men both knew that I was, in fact, this Englishman's son. But in no way in this life am I ever going to open up freely to Haytham Kenway. About _anything_.

Which is why Stephane's intervention is as much of blessing from above as it gets.

As he stopped at where Kenway and I were standing, Chapheau began jogging in place, but I knew that was an act. Mimicking the same energetic mirth I had back at the dorm, he inquired, "So. Finally decided to take a break? Or do you still want to train?"

When I looked back at the professor, I almost wanted to apologize. It seemed that he knew that our conversing had to end here and the realization made him feel like he was losing his chance. And, maybe somewhere in his head, the words _'for now'_, gave him some last-minute reassurance.

Coughing to catch his attention again, I finally replied back. "I still have a thesis to work on, but I'll reconsider your offer, sir." My reply was as polite as my paranoia would allow me to.

It seemed like that reassurance in his head grew tenfold. He nodded his understanding. "Oh, hopefully you will. This week's topic will be a real treat for secretly intellectual students such as yourself. You can even bring your friend here, if he's interested." He pointed towards Stephane with less enthusiasm, but it was enthusiasm all the same. Another set of ears to join in the topic.

I nodded back to him and started moving my own legs. Then I ran past him, turning around to say, "Have a good day, professor!" We made our way. I could see the Englishman's figure fading slowly from my view.

As it completely disappeared, I sprinted a few more meters forward before absurdly stopping. Breathless, I bent over and put my hand on my knees, staring intensely at the cement and grass under my shoes as my mind tried to make sense of what had just transpired.

The occurrence finally filtered itself in my mind, my lips pursed tightly. My face felt like I was going to bawl out of the remaining jitters. I could feel and hear Stephane stop right besides me. One of his hands went to my shoulder, concern lingering in his voice. "Are you alright, Radun?"

And with that, I flopped myself onto the warm grass, hands covering my face as I groaned loudly after that little scene. The amount of relief that I felt was so overpowering, that I couldn't even keep standing and had to lie down on the lawn. I didn't even pay heed to Stephane's sighing as he witnessed me thrash on the ground.

That was close.

TOO.

DAMN.

CLOSE.

* * *

_**North of Boston, At that same moment  
Achilles' POV**_

My telephone was just sitting there, waiting for me to answer a call. It was a smooth little plastic piece of media, red as a rose with black rubber buttons. It was once of those cordless phones that I could reach out and walk around the room with, instead of just sit here, being restricted by a cord.

It was positioned just a foot away from the center of my mahogany desk. And due to my little confrontation with Abstergo's thugs, I was limited to the _only_ kind of work I was allowed to do with such an injury: paper-pushing.

My discomfort did nothing to make time fly. Although my daytime job required me to do such tasks, I still longed to be out again in the field. The Brotherhood thought otherwise (Even before my injury, actually.), which is why the amount of paperwork I would usually brush aside for later were given my full attention. Well, with the papers stacked neatly on the other side of the table now, I grew tired and bored.

I started drumming my fingers on the desk, trying to keep a comfortable posture due to my injured leg nagging at me to comply. The call was supposed to be scheduled around this time, but it was waning with tardiness.

Finally, though, the phone rang, the digital tone going through my ears. I was a lot more anticipating of the call than I had realized earlier, my hand extending quickly over the handset and raising it to my face. I clicked the 'Answer' call after looking at the name of the caller with satisfaction and put the phone to receiver to my ear. "Talk to me."

A strong but respectful female voice answered back. "I've been ordered by central command to report directly to you, sir."

Of course, she was. I rolled my eyes. "What's your status update, Urban Dragon?"

"On that kid you told us to keep an eye on?" She sounded rather skeptical of that order, but her answer was affirming. "From the looks of it, this kid–_Danohue_, was it?—isn't your typical college student. He seems more wary than most of the students around campus. Even his French roommie is conspicuous."

That night, when Faulkner came back from escorting the boy back to his campus, I had delegated to the Brotherhood to keep an eye on that boy. Whether it was to make sure that he didn't fess up to the police about our encounter or because of my past friendship with his deceased mother I wasn't sure, but I had used the former to explain my decision to command central. Although, I believe Faulkner was more aware of the latter reason.

I hummed my understanding, just vaguely remembering Radun's phone call from the roommate he mentioned the other night. "Good. That means he's not careless and is more aware of his surroundings than most. What else?"

"Very decent student. Participates in the athletics department and the academic community. Kind of a favorite amongst the staff. Kind of an introvert too, but from what I hear, he opens up to friends. All-around nice guy, really. I'm currently observing his jogging routine...But we have a problem."

"Spill."

A gruff sound was emitted from the other line before my caller continued. "One of the Titan's operatives work here."

Groaning, I started rubbing my temple with calloused fingers. Of _course_ an Abstergo mole worked at the university. _They were everywhere._

"Any specifics?" I asked warily. The fact that Abstergo had eyes and ears everywhere didn't lessen my inquiry. It was all about _which_ one of those operatives worked there.

"The kid bumped into one of them just a few minutes ago. They seem to know each other, but that's probably due to a professor-student acquaintanceship. Besides, it seems like he's been avoiding the professor."

I grew concerned after hearing that. The mole _knew_ the boy, but if Radun had been avoiding him a lot, then it was our duty to ease him of his convictions.

"But from what I hear," I heard her continue, "from the faculty, the man was a recent addition. Or, should I say, a recent _replacement_. He's been a department head for only two semesters. Now, if that wasn't suspicious enough, his occasional lectures had many implementations."

"Oh, I bet they do." I briskly replied. Just think. A Templar, posing as a university professor and subliminally brainwashing the Order's ideology into the unsuspecting students.

But it sounded like Radun himself had deliberately tried to avoid the man, perhaps on multiple occasions. Taking a deep breath, I started to inquire the inevitable. "A name, Urban Dragon?"

I waited, patience slowly disintegrating for the other line had remained quiet for a long, painful moment. Finally, her reply came flat. "The professor's name is Haytham Kenway."

_Kenway_.

The grip I had on the handset clenched up around the device as I heard that bastard's name uttered through the receiver of the phone. Now I understand. Radun being resisting to his professor's invited to lectures. And his conversation with the boy the other night came back to him, answering that, more or less, what his professors—and I'm willing to bet on my broken leg that he specifically meant Kenway—were teaching him about the Templars was almost _exactly_ how I had described them hypothetically. And then I found the connection between him and the Master Templar.

My thoughts somewhat went to Kaniehtí:io. When she, as a young woman, had asked me personally to not think so harshly of the man. She didn't know back then. Probably never found out. And then it went to my memory of her supposed funeral.

And of a little boy among the mourning… who looked almost like her…

"Sir?"

Urban Dragon's concerned tone brought me back to the present. Loosening my death grip on the handset, I took a deeper breath than the last before looking down on my left vambrace, the Assassin's insignia shine making reflected light from the fluorescent lamps bounce on the opposite wall. Then I finally found the order of words I had wanted to carry out.

"Report back to The Warehouse tomorrow evening. We need a proper plan to carry out, now that you have revealed this much. Before then, keep an eye on the boy." Then, as an afterthought, I added, "How _is_ the boy currently?"

I believe I heard her snigger softly. "Somehow, his friend had prevented their standdown with the Templar. They had just gotten far enough to be out of sight from Kenway in their jog. It…looks like he toppled onto the grass, sir. And he's just…rolling around it. The roommate's just _watching_ at him."

Well, that was a weird turn of events. My frowning integrity of the situation had now turned into amused imagery of Radun, a young adult, rolling around on a campus lawn. Perhaps his friend was being tolerant of his roommate's random collapse.

"I can daresay he _definitely_ has no interest in Kenway. Anymore to report?"

"None for now, sir. It's still morning, so I'll make a full report of the day later."

"Good. Keep your cover until further notice."

"Yes, sir. Over and out."

And with that, I ended the call. As I returned the handset, my fingers once again went to my injured leg. Finally getting tired of this office, I picked up a cane that was standing by the desk and briskly got up to move. Maybe do some of the therapeutic exercises instructed of me.

**END OF CHAPTER 4**

* * *

**Author's note:** That bit where Ratonhnhak_é_:ton/Connor narrates his collision with Haytham was rather tricking. I had to re-imagine it a few times before I finally got to writing this chapter. (And also try to make Haytham's English as clear and refined as I could without overdoing the formality.) And if any of you were taken aback when I tossed the first few light-hearten POVs into Achilles' more dark-toned POV well… I needed to toss it. I'm still sorry, though. OTL

_Next update: March 16-18, again, close to the weekends. And I need a lot of time now. I've gotten really serious with my illustrations recently. Anyone curious can go visit my deviantART account. :D_

Reviews and suggestions are welcome! OuO)/

_~Itchy_


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